nothing more

tiny explosions sent him reeling from his workshop
pleased with himself at first
but later distraught at the coarseness
of his efforts

later he took to arranging stones
polishing late into the night
and agonizing over the placement
of each pebble
which he could never get right

when his first book of verse came out
the faint grey typeface on the
homemade papers of blue and green
and subtle hints between
made it arduous upon the eye

so he took to beachcombing
scouring the shore for nothing
that would satisfy
until someone asked him why
and what did he hope to find

why love of course
are you blind?

but love cannot be found
and I’ll be bound never shall
love will find you
or you spend your whole life through
without it

then I shall capture starlight
in a jar

the careworn qualities
of my heart

the peacock’s cry
within a book

the way the moonlight looks
on a desolate shore

and nothing more

nothing more


For nine hundred and ninety nine nights
he lay breathless in the garden of delights,
watching her sweet breast rise and fall,
awaiting the caress that never came at all.

On the thousandth night as the peacock cried,
her pale hand arose to touch his side,
and his poor heart burst to leave him lying


in the garden of delights.

Mournful is the peacock’s cry.

[first posted 7 June 2014]